Red Sky
by Cressida1
Summary: In 2954, Mount Doom burst into flame again, and Denethor's life changed forever.


_Urimë, T.A. 2954_

Denethor woke before sunrise and sat up quickly, gasping for breath, heart pounding. _A dream…_ But as he tried to catch hold of it, it was gone, leaving only a faint memory of flame.

Throwing aside the bedclothes, he stepped onto the balcony adjoining his chamber and gazed eastward, across the river to Ithilien and the Mountains of Shadow beyond. A small breeze cooled his face, but the air was heavy, telling him the coolness would not last long. It had been a very hot summer.

Over the distant mountains, the sun rose, blood-red.

Denethor did not break his fast, but instead dressed and went directly to the practice ground where the Citadel guards were preparing for their morning training. They spoke but little as they wrapped their swords in cloth to blunt them for practice. One man tried a small jest and another laughed half-heartedly, but it rang hollow, and they soon fell silent. Denethor took his place among them as they began the familiar motions of the practice drill. He felt glad of the exercise and hoped it would clear the lingering shadow from his mind. It did not.

After the drills, they lined up to spar in pairs. The guards' faces were pale and grim in the morning light. They fought silently, with none of the advice and teasing which usually accompanied their bouts. Denethor attacked eagerly, spurred on by the urgency that hung in his mind, and did not wonder when his opponents responded with equal fervor. But none could match him on that day. He scarcely noticed when one challenger was exchanged for another; his sword flew faster than it ever had, seeming almost to move without his conscious direction. In this way, he defeated seven guards in quick succession; but during the eighth bout, the bindings came loose from the other man's sword, and the bare tip raked Denethor's arm.

Denethor hissed at the pain but did not falter. A second later, he brought the flat of his sword to the guard's throat, ending the match. Only then did he stop to examine the cut. It was not deep, but it bled freely, and the armsmaster sent Denethor to the healer to have it bound.

In the herb-scented office, the healer shook his head at Denethor's wound. "It is not like the guards to injure themselves during exercises, but I have already seen two others this morning. What madness has got into the men today?"

Denethor was silent, for he had no answer.

After taking his midmorning meal with the guards, he went to the archive. The dim, hushed coolness of the stone building was a welcome respite from the growing heat. He wandered through the shelves of books and scrolls, searching for something to occupy him. Occasionally, he opened a volume and read a passage; but he grew irritated at his mind's betrayal. Usually, as soon as he read a thing, he owned it—the information was his, at his service to use as he pleased. Today, however, the words flowed over him like water through a net, leaving no trace behind.

When the chimes announced midday, he found himself staring at a very dry treatise on shipbuilding. _What could have moved me to take_ that _from the shelf?_ He hastily replaced it and then stood, frowning, his hand still on the book, tapping the leather binding absently with one long finger. _My mind will not be still today. I need something to do._ Giving up the pretense of study, he left the archive.

He emerged, blinking, into the sullen light of day, then walked the short distance home. His parents were not in: Lady Rothinel was away visiting her brother's estate in northern Anórien, as she did each summer, and Ecthelion had no doubt been detained by business in the White Tower. Denethor took some food from the kitchens and made his way slowly to the stable in the Sixth Circle, eating as he went.

He saddled his horse and rode at a leisurely pace down the winding path through the City. Men and women hurried about their tasks with an air of unease, and even the dogs paced restlessly in the alleys. He had no particular destination in mind until he emerged from the City gates; then he decided to ride to Osgiliath.

Old Maglor, the garrison commander, came out to greet him when he arrived. "It is good to see you again so soon, my lord. What errand brings you here?" His tone was courteous, but his eyes betrayed apprehension. Denethor had accompanied the captain-general on an inspection visit only a few days before, and normally he would not have come again within the month.

"No errand; I merely came to see how things were here."

Maglor relaxed almost imperceptibly. "You must have had a dusty ride from the City. Will you join me for a cup of wine?"

They took their drinks into an open area behind the guardhouse, where the land began to slope down toward the river. Denethor could hear frogs croaking in the reeds by the water's edge. The sun by now had hidden her face behind thick clouds, but this only enclosed the heat without lessening it. The very air seemed heavy as he breathed. _Small wonder the Kings built their summer home on the mountain to escape this,_ he thought.

"We hear strange reports from Ithilien," Maglor told him. "Orcs have been seen abroad, even in daytime; yet they hurry eastward and do not attack."

Denethor frowned. Orcs were all too common in Ithilien these days. They had grown bold in recent years, lending weight to the rumor that the Enemy had returned to his ancient home. Only soldiers and a few stubborn farming-folk now lived so close to Mordor, and they were not enough to keep the orcs completely at bay. Nevertheless, the foul creatures did not love sunlight. It was rare to see them by day, and rarer still to see them without a fight. "I will speak to my father about it," he promised. "Something must be afoot."

He returned to Minas Tirith in the late afternoon. A hot breeze stirred his hair and dried the sweat on his brow without cooling him. After seeing to his horse, he bathed—somewhat awkwardly, for he had to keep the bandage on his arm from getting wet. Then he dressed in fresh clothes and joined his father for the evening meal.

Neither of them had much appetite on account of the heat, so they ate simply: bread, fruit, and cold meat. Denethor gave an account of his day, omitting his dream and the strange uneasiness which troubled him. He disliked mentioning things he could not explain, and he doubted his father would understand in any case; so he contented himself with a bare recitation of events, finishing with Maglor's news.

Ecthelion nodded thoughtfully. "I received reports from the eastern commanders today saying much the same thing. I will bring up this matter before the council in the morning." He ate a slice of fruit before continuing. "Do not forget that I am to judge disputes tomorrow afternoon. I should like you to attend; there is an unusual case, a quarrel over a property line, which should be of interest."

"Very well," answered Denethor. He was about to ask for more information when they heard a sudden flurry of activity in the house's atrium and a servant burst in to announce that Lady Rothinel had returned.

Denethor and Ecthelion both rose in surprise as Rothinel swept into the room, for she had been due to stay with her brother another seven days. There was a flurry of greetings, kisses, exclamations, and questions. "I woke this morning with a strong feeling that I should return," she explained, "so I packed my bags and came immediately. I feared something might be amiss here, but all seems well…."

_Is this what I have been waiting for?_ Denethor wondered briefly as they sat down again, but his mind was no more at rest than it had been before.

Thunder growled softly in the distance throughout the evening, but no rain had come by the time he retired for the night. He left the balcony door open in hopes of catching some cooler air, but it made little difference. For a long time he lay awake in bed, listening to the chimes of the Citadel, while his bandaged arm throbbed. He could not dismiss the feeling that he had forgotten something, or perhaps waited for something, but he could not think what it might be. At last, after much tossing and turning, he fell into a fitful sleep.

He woke suddenly to a dark room and a mighty blast of wind, roaring as loud as thunder around the Citadel. The balcony door swung hard against the wall with a sharp banging sound. Instantly alert and thinking the storm had broken at last, Denethor rose swiftly to close the door—and froze in horror. The storm had broken indeed, but not in the way he had thought. There was no rain, but far in the distance, beyond the mountains, the eastern sky was stained with an unnatural red glow.

He stood with one hand on the door, staring. Though he had never seen anything like this, he had read enough accounts to know that it could only be caused by Orodruin bursting into flame. Dread rose up inside him, mingled with sureness that this, at last, was the thing he had expected all day—the thing which had put his mind into such a state of unrest.

Suddenly, he wheeled around, snatched up a robe, and pulled it around him as he went to seek his parents. He did not have look far; Ecthelion and Rothinel were hurrying toward his chamber, and he met them in the corridor.

"You have seen it?" Ecthelion asked quickly.

"I have," said Denethor, and the three of them walked back to his room. The wind was still blowing hard from the east as they stepped onto the balcony; it tugged at their clothes and whipped their hair back from their faces. The red light in the sky burned ever brighter, tinged with hunger and encircled by lightning-flashes.

Rothinel moved close to her husband. "What can it mean?"

"It may not be the Enemy's work, perhaps…." Ecthelion began doubtfully.

"Of course it is his work. He is taunting us," Denethor snarled, gripping the balcony's edge so hard that his knuckles whitened. In his heart, he felt sure that what was being set in motion that night was nothing less than Sauron's plan to sweep away Gondor once and for all. He felt a sudden wave of helpless anger, as if he had been beaten in a chess-match before he had even begun to play.

_Nonsense!_ he told himself sharply. _This is only a show meant to dishearten us, and we must not succumb to it._ He glanced at his parents and took comfort in seeing that they were not daunted. Ecthelion's brow was furrowed, and Denethor knew that he was already devising ways to strengthen Gondor's defenses. Rothinel stood grave and upright, her mouth fixed in a firm line, just as Denethor remembered seeing her when he was a child and Ecthelion rode off to war. Now that Ecthelion was the Steward, Denethor realized that he himself would be the one to ride away.

In a strange way, the thought cheered him. Gondor's doom might indeed be descending, but they were not powerless. There was much they could do. Though Gondor had lost many of her former allies, she still had the strength of her people and the friendship of the Rohirrim. She had Rothinel's patience and Ecthelion's drive—and Denethor's own talents for lore and strategy. More than ever before, he was determined to place all his skills at Gondor's service, to defend her in the final battle. Indeed, he felt increasingly certain that this was his destiny, the task he had been preparing for all his life.

Rothinel turned, and in her eyes Denethor saw concern for her husband and son, for the new burden which they must take on and the war which would surely soon begin. "Will the Enemy make his move soon, do you think?"

"I do not know," Ecthelion answered her honestly, taking her hand. "But however much time we have, we must make the most of it." He turned to his son. "Denethor, you must attend the Council meeting in the morning."

Denethor met his father's eyes. "I will," he promised.

There would be much to do in the coming days, many plans to be made. This would be a time to show that he, as well as his father, could lead in the time to come. _Together,_ he thought, _we might devise stratagems to defeat even the Dark Lord himself. We are not defeated. The game has barely begun._

Even after his parents took their leave, he stood on the balcony for a long time, watching the red sky. He was still there when the first drops of rain fell.

_**Author's Notes:**__ This story originally appeared in _The Noble Steward's Chronicles, vol. 4. _"Rothinel" is one of the names Tolkien tried out for Denethor's wife before he settled on "Finduilas." I like the name, so I decided to move it back a generation and use it for Denethor's mother._


End file.
